Chapter 16

Beall spent the rest of the week in the rolling northern section of what had been the southern third of Frederick County and then, briefly when the rebellion was young, Arnold County. He ate and slept with the various farmers who had taken on the tasks of road maintenance and tried to forget about James Brookes, Betsy Miller and Joan Suede, although her voluptuous image often came unbidden to his mind, especially as he tried to fall asleep.

He returned home on Friday afternoon, and he and his wife decided they did not need to go to market the next day. Beall was working on his reports by lamplight when someone knocked and then entered at his summons.

"Hi, Sheriff," said a grinning Stud Farrell, "Evenin' Miz Beall."

"Close the door, Stud, and come in," Beall said. "What've you got there?"

"Letter for you. Stage driver brung it today, and it looked important, wax sealed and all, so's here it is. I was on my way home nohow."

"Stay for some tea?" Margaret Beall asked.

"No'm," Stud replied. "They 'spects me at home. Looks like it might rain or something worse. Night."

"Happy fellow," Mrs. Beall said after the door was latched.

"Yes, he usually is. Not very much ambition though." Beall turned the heavy envelope over in his hands a few times looking at his name in a very small script on the front. The back was sealed with dark red wax and the impression of a signet ring.

"Aren't you going to open it?" his wife asked.

"Oh, of course. I was just thinking about something." He broke the seal and pulled out a small sheet of cream-colored paper. Beall unfolded the letter and looked at the subscription. "From the fellow we had supper with, Wainright. Don't think I knew his name was 'William' before."

"Yes, and?" his wife asked, her knitting fingers stilled.

"Guess I will be going down to Georgetown tomorrow. The constable wants to see me. He writes that he has caught a murderer and that he knows who paid for Joan Suede's blue dress. Remember her?"

"Oh yes," said Beall's wife with a grin. "Hard to forget her. In that case, I'll make you a small list so that the trip shan't be wasted. I assume you won't take the wagon."

Beall nodded, rereading the letter from Wainright. "Says he caught one, and that's underlined, one murderer. Wonder which one since he's got three to deal with, at least."

"Well, you've got three bodies of your own out here that you've been fretting about for some years now, so I guess you're even."

"That's true. Somehow, I think all six of these poor folks are connected, but maybe I'm wrong. Maybe they've got nothing to do with each other."

...

"Good morning, Mr. Beall. Good of you to come down on such short notice." Wainright half rose and gestured to the usual chair before his desk.

"I'm pretty well caught up with my work. What have you accomplished? Who'd you catch?"

"Ruffian name of Mac Duffy, least that's what he says it is. Others seem to know him by a variety of monikers. Still had Sparks' purse stashed away in his dingy room, the simple fool. Gave himself away spending too many shillings and doing too little work. Not a surprise, is it?"

"And he killed Gil, the man who lived up in that cave?"

"Doesn't admit it. Claims he found the money under a rock along the shore, but my men discovered a bloody shirt in his room." Wainright smiled. "He may confess in a day or two. We'll see. Some of my deputies can be very persuasive."

"Don't suppose he knew Sparks?"

"Claims he did not, but..."

"Well, it is progress, " Beall admitted. "Now, about the dress and Joan Suede?"